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The regret of his soul is a dark, beautiful magic.
The gift of his hands, an invocation for mercy.
The instrument of his redemption, his only treasure.
His arco—a ribbon of light.
His tastiera—the great Apollo's secret.
His ponticello—bridging the gap between worlds.
He is god-like as he plays,
shattering the world into sorrowful notes,
each sliver-thin and fragile,
yet brighter than a sunrise.
Drawing them from soil and stone,
lonely spirits,
haunted by death's desire for rest,
they come, unwitting,
bidden by his enchantment
receptive to his call.
He is the Pied Piper of Thanatos,
seeking absolution
by trading the music of his heart.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~
"Do you see him when you play—Crabbe, I mean?"
Malfoy stops to pick up a small, bone-white rock, turning its bleached, smooth surface over and over in his hand.
"No. Never."
I can feel his disappointment like a bag of heavy sours in my belly.
"Do you see any of them?" I press, too curious to know when to quit.
He turns and stares out over the relative stillness of the lake. It's a calm day today, and the wind does not churn and foam the water with waves. I know, however, that death lurks under that placid surface in a myriad of forms, just waiting for a chance...
"Only the old ghosts. No one who died during the war," he admits, and there is the tremble of failure in his voice. "I don't think any of them became ghosts."
I am almost relieved to hear him say such a thing. Almost.
"It's strange to think that all their unique, personal knowledge of the world is now lost forever," I sigh. "All their memories, their genetic diversity... all the adventures and experiences that would have awaited them—all gone. We'll never hear their voices again, never see their faces, never know their thoughts or wishes or dreams. They're just footnotes now in history."
"I'm well aware of that, Granger."
Malfoy palms his rock, hauls back, and with a flick of his wrist and a little shoulder force, casually skips the stone in his hand across the loch's surface. It sinks after only two hops. A journey cut short by a lack of momentum.
I stand beside him on the shore, knuckles and elbows brushing against his. We always pose this close, and yet dare no closer. The past is a canyon that gapes wide between us, and neither of us seems to know how to properly bridge it.
"Is that why you play—to bring them back?"
I must know this one thing. It's the burning question in my mind that keeps me awake at night and consumes my daylight hours. It is the reason my feet are compelled to turn towards the Room of Requirement whenever my ears hear the sweet voice of a violin echoing through the castle's hallways and towers.
Unexpectedly, Malfoy turns his hand into mine and I feel the press of a stone against my palm as he slips me a second rock I hadn't seen him pick up. His present thus delivered in a fleeting burst of courage, he turns and walks back towards the castle.
"No. It's to tell them 'good-bye'," he calls over his shoulder, satisfying my interest in an unusually forthright manner.
I watch him go until he is a speck on the horizon, and instinctively I know where he is headed: back to a burned out room on the seventh floor corridor of the castle, to stand next to a dark mark on the floor that no amount of scrubbing or spell can remove. With violin in hand, he will then lament his losses a'la solo concerto, seeking forgiveness until his fingers bleed and his bow breaks.
I look at the stone he has given me. It is jade green in colour, perfectly smooth, oval in shape... the perfect skipping stone.
I toss it into the air and catch it, deciding then and there not to relinquish my ownership of this rare gift. Some things, after all, are too precious to be so casually pitched.
Quickly, I turn and run after Draco, feeling the spirits of this sacred place give my feet Mercury's wings.